


Heard melodies are sweet

by mornmeril



Series: Kink Meme Fills/Prompt Me [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Fluff and Angst, Jehan is everyone's darling, M/M, Prompt Fill, Romance, pining!Feuilly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/coldsteelrail/pseuds/coldsteelrail">coldsteelrail</a>. The prompt was:</p>
<p>  <i>jehan and feuilly are homoromantic asexual but they both think they are the only ones. they have crushes on each other and eventually, as they spend time together, they find their feelings are mutual and there is much cuddling and nuzzling, nosey noseying and smooching. flowers and odes to beautiful hands and you get the idea.</i></p>
<p>A word of warning, this turned out a little angsty at the beginning, but no worries, it's all good in the end :)!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heard melodies are sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldsteelrail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldsteelrail/gifts).



> This is for [coldsteelrail](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coldsteelrail/pseuds/coldsteelrail), I really, really hope you like it, dear!
> 
> Apparently when I said I wasn't sure if I could pull of Jehan/Feuilly, my brain took it as a challenge and immediately started plotting. Though let me just apologise for the angst, I'm SO SORRY, but I promise it's all flowers and sweetness at the end! I managed to work in that Jehan's everyone's darling, though, so... pls forgive me? I hope it's somewhat what you wanted <3!
> 
> I did my best to treat the subject of asexuality with all the respect it deserves and am eternally sorry if I've somehow managed to offend anyone despite my best efforts.
> 
> The title is from ['Ode on a Grecian Urn and Other Poems'](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173742) by John Keats, the full line is: 
> 
> _Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter._
> 
> (ETA 30th July: just a small correction, sorry!)

* * *

In the otherwise complete silence of the night, the muffled moaning and the soft thumps filled the small place of their flat.

Feuilly pressed down harder on his pillow, trying in vein to block out the sounds and fall back asleep. Why would anyone want to do this in the middle of the night? Another moan, slightly louder this time. Feuilly dragged the duvet over his head alongside the pillow, succeeding in baring his feet to the chilly night air. He left it there, anyway.

He knew they were doing their best to be quiet. It wasn’t their fault that the walls in his and Bahorel’s flat were paper-thin and Feuilly could hear him snoring every night as though he were lying right next to him. He just wished they would’ve at least waited until morning. He had to get up early for work tomorrow, so this definitely wasn’t the best of times.

Sighing, Feuilly fished around under his bed for his battered mp3 player. It had belonged to Courfeyrac before, an old relic of his childhood as he called it, but when he’d learned that Feuilly’s shitty old phone didn’t have an mp3 function, he’d passed the player on to him. Feuilly’d been grateful for it. He enjoyed music and when he was dead on his feet after a long day of work, he liked to blank out the world and stay in his own head on his way home.

Plucking in his earphones, Feuilly switched the player on a random song and buried deeper into his nest, finally successful in drowning out the sex-noises. He fell asleep to the sound of a smokey voice crooning in his ears.

*

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the appeal of sex - in an abstract way at least - but it simply didn’t appeal to _him_. It never had. Back in school, when he was still young and foolish, he’d admitted as much to his fellow classmates when they wouldn’t shut up about it. He just didn’t have the patience to listen to endless descriptions of how they were planning to go about getting laid, or weren’t Juliette’s legs perfect for wrapping around your waist, and her boobs, weren’t they were amazing!

But of course by saying that he had absolutely no interest in Juliette, other than maybe her intelligent comments on the social classes, he was then branded as gay. While not wrong, this certainly wasn’t the point. Because it wasn’t about the fact that it was Juliette and not Pierre, it was the fact that Feuilly was plain not interested in getting naked with anybody; let alone have someone’s demanding hands all over him urging him to expose parts of himself that he just wasn’t willing to show.

But in any case, the being gay excuse got him through puberty and most of his school days, until it didn’t.

People were always so terribly interested in each other’s sex lives, it was ridiculous. It was also, Feuilly thought, one of the main problems within human society and one of the reasons why things like homophobia or simply general ignorance for individual people’s sexuality existed in the first place. What did it matter if someone was having sex or not? And where, and with whom? Weren’t there enough topics of discussion that would divulge much more interesting information about a person’s character than their sexual practices?

It was one thing if your friend wanted to tell you all about it, Feuilly could understand wanting to share something with his friends or seeking advice. It wasn’t as though he minded hearing his friends talking about their relationships and their sex life, but they were his family and not some random acquaintances that simply wanted to use their sexual prowess as a means to give themselves more importance. Sexuality didn’t define people, it wasn’t a character trait, wasn’t the same as someone being nice, or funny, or intelligent. It was merely a part of someone’s person, something that no one had any influence over and should be treated as such.

So when Feuilly failed to adapt, when he failed to present his fellow classmates with stories about who and how he’d gotten a leg over, he was then moved from the shelf ‘gay’ to the shelf ‘weirdo’. The day of his graduation had been one of the happiest in his life.

He’d resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t ever have a relationship, because even though the getting naked part was definitely something he could give a miss, that didn’t mean he didn’t want physical closeness with anyone. In fact, he was quite certain that he could fall in love and had actually felt the pull of an emotional connection a few times before.

Feuilly had only acted on such a pull once, when he’d still thought that just loving someone would be enough; that it was possible to work something out to please both parties while still being happy together. After all, sex was just one aspect of a relationship, one of so many others that made up the balance between two people. But obviously, he’d been wrong.

Michel had been attractive, popular, and good with words. He had an army of friends and was always hopping from one party to the next. He’d charmed a much younger Feuilly by not caring about anyone else’s opinions and being the first man to ever look at him twice.

On a high from all the attention he’d been receiving, Feuilly had let himself be swept along. He’d thought that maybe he wasn’t a weirdo after all, maybe he’d just needed to meet the right person and maybe that person was Michel.

They had gone out on dates together to all sorts of different places, each time more thrilling than the last. Michel had introduced Feuilly to all his friends, had taken him to parties and openly held his hand and kissed his lips. For an orphan like Feuilly, who’d never had much physical attention from anyone before, it was scary but at the same time gloriously new and exciting.

He loved the intimacy, loved holding hands and curling up with another person until neither was sure where one began and the other ended. The feeling of soft kisses always left his skin tingling pleasantly and Feuilly would have said he loved kissing, too, until he really didn’t anymore. Because just like that, the sweet kisses turned to demands, turned into a pushy tongue that urged him on, turned into a means to underline even pushier hands and hips.

Feuilly’s elation faded, turned into wariness and constant excuses. Michel, of course, didn’t understand. He tried to be patient at first, until he didn’t and just became frustrated. He accused Feuilly of teasing, of playing hard to get and of being difficult and Feuilly had retreated more and more into himself, hurt and disappointed but unwilling to show it. 

They had parted in a fight, Michel storming out angrily telling him it was over and Feuilly standing in stony silence watching him go.

He never wanted to go through that ever again, so he decided to just keep to himself from now on.

Which worked well despite the constant ache of loneliness drilling a hole in his chest and leaving him full of little voids he couldn’t fill, no matter how hard he threw himself into his work or inhaled one book after the next; diving into complicated political and social matters and keeping himself occupied.

This was, of course, how he’d met Enjolras.

Feuilly wasn’t a student, couldn’t afford to be and wouldn’t have been able to settle with just one subject anyway. So he read and he taught himself whatever he wanted to learn, while working odd jobs here and there that kept him afloat just so. He did, however, visit the university campus on a regular basis to go to the library and he’d seen Enjolras there before, more often than not in the company of Combeferre as they poured over text books and typed out pages and pages of essays.

What he hadn’t known, was that Enjolras was the founder of a group of students that came together at least once a week to discuss everything from the current political situation to the philosophy of mankind. Enjolras was passionate about a lot of things and deeply involved in several activist groups, always organising protests and encouraging people to stand up for themselves.

When one day he’d run into Feuilly, literally, he’d apologised in one breath and in the next had taken the opportunity of handing him one of the flyers sticking out of his messenger bag. Intrigued, Feuilly had turned up for the next meeting and that, had been that.

For the first time in his life, people actually listened to what he had to say. His opinion was valued and even asked for. No one judged the other and as the years passed and their group grew, they became a family with ties so strong that no one could break them up again, even had they tried.

Feuilly had been with them for four years now, but it felt rather more as if they had known each other for a lifetime already.

Within the group, no one ever questioned him about his lack of relationships or the fact that he never went home with anyone. They didn’t ask about his sex life, even while some talked of their own and Feuilly wasn’t sure if it was because they could sense something about him that just warned them off, or if it was just common decency. He was grateful either way.

It wasn’t that he thought they would love him any less if they knew, but even so he still couldn’t shake the fear that they would see him differently afterwards. That maybe they would feel the need to act according to that new information by acknowledging it more, or by never mentioning their own relationships in his presence again. He was scared that he would make them uncomfortable, maybe even lead to them feeling guilty about their physical displays of affection with their partners and, really, that was the last thing he wanted.

He loved seeing his friends happy and considering that most of them were in a relationship with another member of their group, it hardly seemed fair to shake them up. Bahorel, Jehan, Eponine and himself were the only people not involved with anyone in the group - or outside the group for that matter. Until recently, that was, when everyone’s jaw had hit the floor at the announcement that Bahorel and Eponine were dating - which, honestly, no one had seen coming. Not even Courfeyrac.

Feuilly was happy for them, of course. Bahorel hadn’t had a real relationship with anyone in the time since Feuilly had known him and they’d moved in together. There had been plenty of one-night stands, but they usually happened over the weekends and Feuilly was good at staying away when that happened, mostly simply sticking with Grantaire and Courfeyrac as they continued partying. With both of them having their partners at home, there was no chance of either of them abandoning Feuilly for a fling and Enjolras and Combeferre never had a problem with their boyfriends having fun without them - neither of the two was particularly keen on Paris’ nightlife.

However, one-night stands at the weekends and a serious relationship were two entirely different things. Feuilly could see that Bahorel and Eponine really liked each other and wanted to make it work. And it wasn’t as though Feuilly didn’t like Eponine, because obviously she was part of their family and he admired her strength greatly. It was just that it had been only him and Bahorel for so long that it was hard to get used to the change.

Not only that, but their tiny flat with the aforementioned paper-thin walls was hardly the place for a couple. Eponine’s place, however, wasn’t an option either, seeing as she was renting a shitty room off Montparnasse and he had a fit whenever someone so much as visited her. Also, Gavroche lived with her, so obviously there was hardly any alone-time to be had when they all sat together in a room.

But Feuilly couldn’t afford living on his own and they certainly couldn’t afford a bigger place, so they were stuck where they were and simply had to deal with it.

This all changed, however, when a week later Montparnasse evicted Eponine and Gavroche from their room and they now had to share three tiny rooms between as many people in addition to a bouncy ten-year old. As much as they loved each other, they hardly lasted five days before wanting to rip their hair out in frustration. 

Eponine called for a meeting on day six.

*

“You could stay with us,” Grantaire said, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced. “We have enough room.”

Eponine gave him a look. “I don’t think so.”

Everyone else breathed an inner sigh of relief. Grantaire and Combeferre were the only people ever that had managed to live with Enjolras, who had a hard time sharing his living space with anyone. Not only that, but Feuilly was absolutely certain that should Enjolras and Eponine ever be forced to live together, they’d end up killing each other within the first day.

“I want to stay with Courf and ‘Ferre,” Gavroche said decidedly, his eyes never leaving his task of building a castle with a stack of the Musain’s coasters.

“You know we’d love to take you, Gavroche, but we don’t have enough room for Eponine. Sorry.” Courfeyrac gave a rueful smile.

Enjolras was frowning, clearly trying to puzzle out the situation. Beside him, Combeferre looked much the same.

“You know,” Joly piped up from his place between Bossuet and Musichetta. “Wouldn’t it be more logical if Feuilly were to move out? Then we’d only be looking to accommodate one additional person instead of two and Bahorel and Eponine could stay together.”

“He has a point,” Enjolras said and the others nodded. 

All but Eponine who firmly shook her head. “I don’t want to chase you from your own home,” she said, looking at Feuilly.

But Feuilly thought of noisy nights and not enough privacy for any of them and quickly waved her off.

“I don’t mind. As long as I can afford the rent, it’s fine by me.”

“You can stay with me, if you like.”

Everyone turned to look at Jehan, his voice quiet but enough to draw everyone’s attention.

“I’ve got enough room and you can pay me whatever you’re paying now,” he went on with a shy smile.

Feuilly had trouble concealing the way his breath caught, his heart suddenly thumping insistently against his ribcage. Jehan had used to live with Joly and Bossuet, until they decided to move in with Musichetta and leaving Jehan to find a place of his own.

Though he never flaunted it, everyone knew that Jehan’s family had money; not the kind of old money that Enjolras’ or Marius’ family had, but still more than any of the others - except maybe Cosette. Also, unlike Enjolras and Marius, he was still on speaking terms with his family and when he’d mentioned to them that he had to look for a new place, they had promptly bought him a small flat close to where Enjolras and Grantaire lived.

Feuilly remembered him being terribly embarrassed about it, flushing bright red as he stammered out the news to his friends. It had been utterly adorable.

Feuilly’s first instinct was to say yes. Yes of course, he’d love to. Then he thought, no. Definitely not. He couldn’t do it, because how was he supposed to survive having Jehan so close without giving himself away?

But then he looked at Jehan’s smiling face, his eyes bright and just a little hopeful and all his reasoning caved once more.

“Yes,” is what finally came out of his mouth. “Alright.”

*

It was, of course, anything but alright.

It was a sad, sad fact of life that Feuilly was actually ridiculously enamoured with Jehan. Had been pretty much from the first time he’d met him, really. For all the times Feuilly had felt drawn to another person, nothing compared to the fluttery feeling in his chest every time he caught sight of Jehan with his beautiful face and his flowery braid and his terrible, terrible clothes.

He wanted to smother him in hugs, wanted to kiss every single freckle on his face and bury his hands in that long, soft strawberry blond hair. That was, of course, also the reason why Feuilly had taken particular care to keep some distance between them. He was scared of feeling this way, sought to suppress it as best he could, but never quite succeeded. He didn’t know how to deal with this except to ignore it and set strict boundaries for himself. No one else could know, least of all Jehan. He’d be mortified for sure, guilty for being unable to reciprocate and the last thing Feuilly wanted was for Jehan to suffer.

This forced distance was also the reason that Feuilly was the only person not constantly in Jehan’s space, because it was a fact of their group that Jehan was everyone’s darling.

He never said no to anything, was always there when any of them needed something and his flat was constantly occupied by at least one of their friends because of one thing or another. As far as Feuilly could tell, Jehan thrived under the attention, always happy to help and never tired of listening to his friends’ problems. His phone was always on, his door always open and his arms ready to cuddle whoever needed it.

More than once, Feuilly had struggled with himself, on the brink of giving in and simply claiming a hug on the grounds of feeling miserable, but he’d managed to restrain himself every time. It wouldn’t be fair, he knew, and it would only make things worse for him.

So until now, distance had been his only coping mechanism and now that it would be ripped away from him, he had no idea what to expect.

He packed up his things and put everything away in Jehan’s extra bedroom. He hardly had any possessions to speak of and he was done within a few hours.

Feuilly moved in expecting it to be bad. In reality, it was worse.

*

It took Feuilly just a bit over two weeks to reassess the situation.

Two weeks of seeing Jehan with his hair down and flowing over his shoulders as he stumbled into the kitchen in the mornings, eyes still heavy with sleep. Two weeks of watching him flit around between their friends, always busy doing this or that and wearing a bright smile the entire time. Two weeks of watching Jehan from beneath his lashes as he sat next to Feuilly on the couch engrossed in a book, or writing down a poem, his lips silently forming the words to himself as he sounded them out in his head.

It took Feuilly two weeks to realise that no, he wasn’t enamoured with Jehan. He was absolutely, stupidly in love with him. He also wanted to hide away and never come back out.

*

“You look tired,” Courfeyrac said, happily devouring the pancakes Jehan had just made for him.

Feuilly went passed them both where they were sitting at the kitchen table and switched on the coffee machine.

“I’m fine.” 

He didn’t turn to look at them, didn’t have to see it to know that they were sharing some kind of silent communication behind his back.

Courfeyrac muttered something that sounded like “Okay, then” under his breath, but didn’t say anything more. Feuilly put a cup under the spout and pressed a button.

“Would you like some pancakes?” Jehan asked once the coffee machine had fallen silent again.

“No, thank you.” Feuilly tried his hardest to force his lips into a smile.

He probably wasn’t doing a very good job of it, but Jehan’s answering one was as brilliant as always. Feuilly’s heart, the traitor, lurched in his chest. He quickly fled the kitchen.

When he left for work half an hour later, he saw Courfeyrac splashing Jehan with the suds from the sink where they were washing the dishes together. Jehan squealed a bit, laughing, and turned the dish towel into a weapon to whack Courfeyrac with it.

Courf caught the other end of the towel and tugged, hard, surprising Jehan who then ended up stumbling against him. Courfeyrac cackled, catching him in a hug and spinning him around the kitchen.

Feuilly clenched his jaw and left, Jehan’s laughter following him out the door.

*

“I’m doing laundry, do you have anything you’d like me to put in?”

Feuilly looked up from his book and found Jehan standing in the door to the living room, a basket full of brightly coloured clothes in his arms.

“No, thank you,” he said.

Jehan made as if to go, then hesitated. He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, but the words never came. He stood there for a moment, lips parted and Feuilly could do nothing but stare at them and think about how much he wanted to kiss them.

White teeth sank into his lower lip as if to physically block whatever Jehan wanted to say from coming out, before giving a simple nod and walking off.

Feuilly stared after him, wishing he knew what Jehan had wanted to tell him.

*

 “And then he said he’s too old,” Cosette’s voice drifted over from the living room as Feuilly let himself into the flat.

He found her sprawled out on the couch, her feet in Jehan’s lap where he was busy painting her nails. They looked up as he came in, both giving him a smile in greeting.

“Hey,” Cosette said, waving, the already painted nails of her hand caching the light in a flash of colour. “I was just telling Jehan about my father being silly. He claims he’s too old for dating.”

Jehan nudged Cosette’s leg and she moved it to rest on the back of the couch as Jehan switched to her other foot and started painting there.

“Maybe he’s scared,” Jehan commented quietly, brushing off excess colour on the rim of the bottle with practiced ease.

Cosette sighed, wriggling the toes of her already finished foot. “I know it’s scary, but how are you supposed to find what makes you happy if you never try anything? It’s not like it’s all just gonna drop ready in your lap. There’s always a risk to love, but it’s all worth it once you find the real thing.”

Feuilly’s stomach turned unpleasantly and he found he no longer wanted to be part of this particular conversation.

“You don’t have to go!” Cosette called after him as he made his way to his room.

“Some of the others are coming over in a bit to watch a movie,” Jehan said, pausing in his work to look up at him. “Don’t you want to join us?”

“No, thank you,” Feuilly said, fingers unconsciously tightening around the strap of his bag. “I’m meeting Bahorel for dinner.”

He could feel Jehan’s eyes on him as he left.

*

As soon as Bahorel caught sight of him, he yanked him into a tight bear hug, thumping on his back hard enough to make Feuilly cough a little.

“I missed you, mate!” he crowed into his ear.

Feuilly winced, but hugged him back, letting himself hold on for another moment. It had become harder keeping it all inside and he’d started wavering beneath the weight of his secret. More than once, Feuilly had caught himself thinking of telling at least one of them.

Bahorel, maybe, because he was closest to him. Or Enjolras, even.

Enjolras wasn’t someone any of them would consider going to for relationship advice, Feuilly knew, but for a time at the very beginning, Feuilly had entertained the idea that maybe Enjolras was like him. He’d never seemed interested in anybody, least of all women, and it had been no secret that Enjolras had never so much as considered even kissing anyone.

Feuilly had just about worked up the nerve to maybe address the subject with him, when Grantaire had appeared out of nowhere and all of his previous assumptions had gone out the window - as had Enjolras’ apparently.

The drama that had followed had reached epic proportions and had managed to eclipse even the whole debacle with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, in which they had managed to drunkenly fall into bed with each other and then proceeded to dance around the fact for _months_ until finally admitting their feelings.

It had made Feuilly glad that he’d kept his mouth shut.

“You alright?” Bahorel asked when they finally let go of each other, eyeing him with concern.

Feuilly shrugged, tired of answering the question but also unwilling to lie for once.

“C’mon,” Bahorel said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and using it to swing him around and drag him towards the small pizzeria they had chosen as their meeting place. “You can tell me all about it over dinner.”

Feuilly told Bahorel about work, about the new waiter that had managed to smash four glasses in as many hours and about considering switching shifts to better accommodate his hours at the factory. He didn’t mention Jehan at all.

*

“Did you have another fight?”

Feuilly looked up just as Grantaire walked into the living room, closely followed by a concerned looking Jehan. The answer to that question was clear, even without Grantaire’s nod, his eyes slightly red-rimmed and his jaw still set tight in anger.

He gave Feuilly’s shoulder a soft squeeze in greeting, before folding onto the couch next to him. Unlike Bahorel, Grantaire did everything gently. Feuilly had never seen him even so much as clap anyone on the back and he suspected it had something to do with his upbringing - if you could call it that - as well as his natural character.

Jehan sat at his side and Grantaire immediately curled into his open arms, hiding his face in his chest. Jehan said nothing, just petted his hair and stroked his back. 

Feuilly went back to reading.

By the time there was another knock on the door, Grantaire had detangled himself from Jehan and had informed them both of his ridiculous assignment for class. After dropping out and then taking some time to sort out his alcoholism, Grantaire was back in art-school and full of complaints. Apparently there was this new teacher full of these weird ideas, as Grantaire called them, and she’d given them the task to use a painting from any movie as inspiration to make something of their own.

Grantaire, out of spite and clearly meaning it as some sort of fuck you, had chosen the painting from ‘Emma’ where Gwyneth Paltrow as Emma painted her friend Harriet in a ridiculous ancient greek get-up. This was also why Jehan was now standing by the window, wrapped in a bed sheet and holding one of his flower pots while Grantaire sat on a chair across from him and captured the image on paper.

The knock sounded again and Jehan’s eyes flickered to the door, but Grantaire made a protesting sound in the back of his throat, keeping Jehan in place.

Feuilly got up from the couch. “I’ll go.”

On his way to the door, he saw that Grantaire was down to putting the last finishing touches to the shading. The picture shouldn’t have looked as beautiful as it did.

He opened the door, finding a tight-lipped Enjolras on the other side. His expression looked stormy and to anyone else he might’ve looked angry, but to those who knew him well it simply looked troubled. Feuilly let him in without a word and followed him back to the living room, where Grantaire was busy laughing at Jehan who was shaking out his arm, stiff from holding the flower pot for almost two hours. He stopped laughing when he caught sight of Enjolras and they simply stared at each other for a moment.

Jehan caught Feuilly’s gaze and tilted his head, indicating the kitchen. By the time they had reached it, Enjolras and Grantaire were already in each other’s arms.

“I’m sorry for shouting,” Enjolras was saying, so quietly Feuilly almost didn’t catch it.

They closed the kitchen door to give them some privacy.

Jehan unknotted the sheet, before draping it over the closest chair. He’d taken off his oversized jumper so the sleeves wouldn’t be peeking out and was left in a purple t-shirt and yellow jeans with a dizzying floral print. Feuilly was hopelessly charmed.

“Tea?” Jehan asked, already moving to put the kettle on.

Feuilly perched stiffly onto the edge of a chair. “No, tha-”

Jehan whirled around, the movement abrupt and so unlike him that Feuilly startled. His look was fierce, taking on that particular edge that they hardly ever saw on Jehan’s face. For someone so petite and sweet, Jehan could be quite terrifying if he put his mind to it.

“If you tell me ‘No, thank you’ one more time, I swear I’ll smother you with the bed sheet,” Jehan said, voice slightly deeper the way it got when he was angry. “Let me rephrase: I’m making tea, and you will have some with me.”

Feuilly could only nod, completely taken aback by Jehan’s sudden forcefulness. It was slightly disconcerting that he found it just as charming as everything else he did.

Jehan made the tea and brought the cups over to the table, before sliding into the seat opposite Feuilly.

“I know we’re not very close,” he said, voice back to being soft and quiet, his head slightly ducked. “But you’re my friend and if there’s something I’ve done to upset you, then please tell me so I can apologise.”

Feuilly could feel his eyes widen in surprise. 

“Jehan, no,” he said, incredulous. “You haven’t done anything. Why would you think that?”

“I just-” Jehan broke off on a sigh. “I know there’s something wrong and obviously you don’t have to tell me what it is, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I’ve made you angry and that I’m here if you do want to talk about it.”

“I’m not angry,” Feuilly said softly. He dearly hoped that his gaze wasn’t giving away the tenderness he felt warming his chest.

Jehan looked at him searchingly for a moment.

“Feuilly-”

The door to the kitchen opened and Jehan broke off. The nervous expression was wiped from his face in a heartbeat, replaced by a brilliant smile as he saw Grantaire and Enjolras, once more relaxed and holding hands. He got up to hug them both and Grantaire gave Feuilly a wave, before Jehan escorted them both outside.

Feuilly stayed where he was and looked at his steaming cup.

*

The next day, Feuilly was distracted.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the strange conversation in the kitchen and the fact that he’d obviously failed at acting as though everything was fine. Not only that, but he’d managed to behave in a way that made Jehan think he was angry at him, and that was simply unacceptable.

Feuilly decided that he’d at least try to re-open yesterday’s conversation, but when he got home in the evening, Combeferre was sitting on the couch with Jehan at his side, both of them engrossed in their individual laptop screens.

“I think you should use a different word here,” Jehan said, turning his laptop for Combeferre to see. “You’ve already used it in the previous paragraph.”

They were proof-reading, Feuilly realised. Enjolras was probably busy, so Combeferre had come to Jehan for help. Apparently there would be no more talking tonight.

Feuilly retreated to his room and left them to work.

*

“Ow _fuck_.”

Feuilly’s eyebrow shot up, slightly alarmed at hearing Jehan curse. He could recall the times that had happened on one hand and each of the situations that had warranted it had been bad.

Something clattered to the floor in Jehan’s bedroom and Feuilly dropped his bag where he stood, quickly toeing off his shoes and leaving it all in a heap in the hall as he crossed the living room with a few, swift strides. The door to Jehan’s room was open and Feuilly found him clutching an already bandaged hand, a hairbrush lying on the floor at his feet.

“Jehan?” he asked, unable to keep the concern form his voice. “What happened to your hand?”

Jehan looked up, a rueful smile on his lips, and bent to pick up the brush with his left hand, the right still held close to his chest.

“I helped Bossuet cook.”

Both of Feuilly’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline and he gave Jehan a dubious look.

“You let Bossuet handle a knife?”

Jehan sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed. 

“It’s his, Joly and Musichetta’s anniversary and he wanted to make them dinner. He slipped cutting a tomato.” He waved his bandaged hand. “It’s not so bad, really, just stupid because it’s along the palm. Can’t pick anything up.” He looked mournfully at the brush in his hand.

“Let me help.” The words were out of Feuilly’s mouth before he could stop them.

Jehan’s looked up, wide-eyed. “What?”

Feuilly clenched his jaw, unwilling to back down now after the words were already out. He was being ridiculous. Jehan was his friend and he needed him. He could bloody well keep his stupid heart in check long enough to help him out.

Not trusting himself to speak, Feuilly silently crossed over to where Jehan was sitting and reached for the hairbrush. Jehan relinquished it easily, still watching him with a slightly stunned look on his face.

“Turn around,” Feuilly commanded softly, proud that he managed to keep the tremble from his voice.

Jehan gave him one last look, something unreadable in his grey-green eyes, before obeying and shifting on the bed, facing away. There was a short, silent war with himself as Feuilly considered remaining standing up, but he was already taller than Jehan as it was and with the other man sitting down it would have been awkward to reach him properly.

Taking a deep breath, Feuilly slid onto the bed behind him, careful not to touch Jehan any more than necessary, and reached for the strawberry blond braid. It was slightly messy after a whole day of being touched by Jehan’s nervous fingers. He always tended to absentmindedly fidget with it when his hands weren’t occupied otherwise.

Feuilly ran his fingers down it’s length, feeling the soft texture as he gently tugged it over Jehan’s shoulder.

Jehan tilted his head a little, giving Feuilly better access. The scrunchie came off easily and Feuilly placed it next to them on the bed, before setting to gently comb through the braid with his fingers a few times to loosen the strands. He thought he heard Jehan make a soft sound, but it could just as well have been in his own head. Or drowned out by the frantic beating of his heart.

Feuilly picked off a few random flowers, the ones that had survived throughout the day and not fallen off or become prey to Jehan’s twisting fingers. This close, Feuilly could smell a sweet mixture of flowers and something that must have been cherry, the scent stronger where it clung to Jehan’s hair. He wished he could lean in and bury his nose in it.

Feeling breathless, Feuilly gripped the brush tightly in his hand, the edges of the wood digging into his palm, but when he brought it to Jehan’s hair he was careful to be as gentle as possible. The brush slid easily through the strands, the braid having kept it from knotting and leaving it in gentle waves that ended just beneath Jehan’s shoulder blades.

“Would you like me to re-braid it for you?” Feuilly asked into the silence, his voice coming out gentle in a way that he didn’t know he was capable of.

Jehan’s back heaved a little and Feuilly ached to press a hand to it, to feel him breathing.

“Would you?”

Feuilly put the brush aside and started parting the hair into three, even sections.

“Of course,” he said softly, unnecessarily.

He braided loosely, the way he knew Jehan liked to have for sleeping so that by the time he stumbled into the kitchen tomorrow morning, it’ll have come undone. Feuilly was almost disappointed when he reached the end and tied it off with a few flicks of his fingers. As much as he’d like to keep doing this, though, he knew his heart wouldn’t be able to take it. Not when he had Jehan so close, but still not close enough.

“There,” he said quietly. “All done.”

Jehan turned to look at him, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding distantly breathy.

Feuilly tried not to think about it as he hastily got up and placed the brush on the closest surface.

“It was no trouble.” He didn’t look at Jehan. “Good night.”

Jehan’s eyes followed him out the door.

“Good night, Feuilly.”

*

The next morning found Feuilly tired and irritated at himself, his shoulders weighed down by sleeplessness. He scowled darkly at the coffee machine, then continued to scowl at his coffee cup and rubbed harshly at his eyes until he saw stars.

When his vision had cleared once more, he found Jehan hovering in the doorway, cheeks already blazing and hairbrush clutched tightly in his uninjured hand. He was already dressed, which was strange because even though his shift at the library started early, it wasn’t as early as Feuilly’s in the factory. Jehan usually stumbled out of bed when Feuilly was just about to leave for work, still in his pyjamas and mussed from sleep.

_He must have gotten up early to catch me in time_ , Feuilly thought.

“Could you help me again?” Jehan flushed even darker, if that was possible, eyes cast down and shoulders tense. “Please?”

Feuilly’s breath hitched and he did his best to conceal the effect Jehan’s adorable stammering had on him.

“Of course,” he said, pulling up a chair and placing it in front of him. “Sit down.”

Jehan did, handing him the hairbrush and a scrunchie, before turning his back. Feuilly carefully brushed out the few knots that had sneaked in over the night, before parting the soft hair and re-braiding it swiftly, tighter this time so as to last throughout the day.

It was a good thing he had to leave for work, or Feuilly would have been tempted to linger unnecessarily.

They didn’t speak and Feuilly was grateful for it, afraid of what might come tumbling from his mouth with his senses cloyed by Jehan’s sweet smell and the lingering softness of sleep making him seem even cuddlier.

It was only when Feuilly had left the flat that he realised he’d braided Jehan’s hair along the back and not the side and there hadn’t been a flower in sight. He swore to rectify that mistake the next time.

*

That night, Feuilly came home especially late after Bahorel had intercepted him after work and dragged him out drinking. It had been nice to spend time with him, but it also meant that Jehan was already asleep by the time he got home.

It was ridiculous to be sad about missing the opportunity to touch Jehan’s hair, but Feuilly had gotten used to being ridiculous by now and missed it anyway.

*

The following day was a Saturday and Feuilly, without an alarm and having basically stayed up two nights in a row, managed to sleep straight till noon. 

When he managed to drag himself out of bed and make his way in the direction of the kitchen it was to the sight of Jehan and Enjolras on the couch. Enjolras, for once, looked as though he wasn’t working or stressing over work, instead seeming relaxed and at ease, mouth curved in a small smile at whatever Jehan was telling him. His golden hair was tumbling about his face, longer than Feuilly ever remembered seeing it but suspecting it had something to do with Grantaire protesting every time Enjolras mentioned getting it cut.

Lately, Enjolras had taken to tying it back and Feuilly couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen it loose like this. His curiosity was answered in the form of Jehan’s own hair, which wasn’t braided for once, but tied into a bun held together by what was unmistakably Enjolras’ hair tie. Feuilly recognised it because it was the one Grantaire had given him as a joke a few months ago - three lines in blue, white and red now curling around Jehan’s hair.

Feuilly tried his best not to glare, feeling his chest tighten treacherously as he stomped into the kitchen.

That night, he stayed out on purpose.

*

Jehan came to him the next day when Feuilly was reading the newspaper in the kitchen, enjoying his final day off before having to go back to work tomorrow.

“Will you braid it for me?” Jehan asked him quietly, holding out his hairbrush with a slightly trembling hand.

Despite his better judgment, Feuilly took the brush.

*

Over the next few days, they fell into a routine and Feuilly’s fingers soon knew how best to handle Jehan’s hair, knew how to turn to make the braid align sideways and fall easily over Jehan’s shoulder. He even let himself indulge by twining a few flowers into his hair in the mornings, very carefully avoiding Jehan’s gaze every time.

They still didn’t speak much, despite Jehan’s efforts to get him to talk and Feuilly felt bad for it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Jehan, it was just that he feared he’d give himself away within the first five minutes and then everything would be even more unbearable than it was now.

Feuilly wondered if it would be as bad if he was like everyone else. Wondered if the hopelessness he felt wouldn’t be quite as suffocating, but there was no way to know.

*

It was one night almost a week since Feuilly had offered his help when things changed, the pattern suddenly disrupted when Jehan turned to face him just as Feuilly was about to part his hair and start braiding.

They were on Jehan’s bed, just like the first time, the only light in the room the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Jehan looked even softer in that moment, his eyes darker as he looked at Feuilly with one of his unreadable looks. He re-settled in front of him, cross-legged.

“Like this.” Was all Jehan said, his left hand reaching up and sweeping his hair over one shoulder. Feuilly stared at him, completely taken aback by the sudden change. Jehan didn’t falter. “Do it like this.”

Slowly, Feuilly obeyed, reaching for the soft strands and carefully parting them once more. His fingers were trembling, despite his best efforts to keep them still, and his chest was so tight he thought he might stop breathing entirely any moment.

It was different like this, the angle slightly awkward and Jehan’s eyes heavy as they rested on him without wavering once. Feuilly’s usually so skilled movements became clumsy and the soft hair slid from between his fingers more than once, turning the braid uneven and with small strands sticking out messily at the sides.

Feuilly almost felt as though he was under a spell, the air thick and his mind dizzy and unable to grasp a single thought. He felt vulnerable, completely exposed and even more at sea than usual, waves of emotion tossing him this way and that without him being able to do anything about it. He wondered, briefly, dazedly, if he was about to wake up any moment, because this just wasn’t what the real world felt like. And this wasn’t what _Jehan_ was like, unsmiling and intent as though Feuilly was a particularly complicated piece of poetry he was trying to analyse.

He tied off the braid, twisting the scrunchie a few times around the end before letting it fall from his fingers. Jehan was still looking at him, his soft jaw set in something that looked like determination.

“I want to show you something,” Jehan said quietly into the silence between them, close enough for his knees to brush against Feuilly’s leg where it was pulled up between them, foot tucked behind the one still resting on the floor.

Feuilly could do noting but look at him, heart thumping wildly in his chest and completely out of his depth.

Jehan sucked in a breath, before reaching for the bandage on his right hand and starting to slowly unravel it. The gauze seemed endless to Feuilly, the moment dragging surreally and setting him on edge in a way he didn’t understand. When it finally fell away, white fabric discarded in a coil on the mattress next to them, Jehan turned his hand for Feuilly to see.

His palm was slightly creased from the bandage, the lines faint and uneven. It was also completely healed, only the faintest impression of a pink line across the centre where the cut had most likely been. Feuilly’s eyes snapped up, catching Jehan’s guilty expression, the deep flush rising to his cheeks. His jaw, however, was still set and his gaze strong.

“I didn’t want you to stop,” Jehan murmured like a confession, but offered without remorse, without seeking absolution.

And Feuilly was still struggling to comprehend the words, his mind feebly fighting to connect the dots and piece together what all of this meant, when Jehan had taken over once more and leaned in. A sweet, flowery scent hit Feuilly’s nose mere seconds before Jehan’s lips found his own.

They were dry, but silky soft, and Feuilly was kissing back before he even knew he was doing it, lips moving on instinct and pressing close, wanting more. There was a muffled sound between them and Jehan’s warm breath washed over his face as the angle of the kiss changed. A choked gasp was stuck in Feuilly’s throat, his hands sliding into Jehan’s hair, fingers messing up his own work as he pulled him closer.

Jehan whimpered, his previously bandaged palm curving around Feuilly’s jaw, while the other cupped the back of his neck to keep him in place. It was only when Jehan’s tongue, hot and wet, brushed the seam of his mouth that Feuilly slammed back into reality.

He wrenched free, the soft excitement in his chest turning to panic as he scrambled backwards and off the bed. His knees were shaking, his legs almost unable to support him, but all he could think about was to flee, to get away from this before it could turn ugly, before it could become tainted with demands he knew he couldn’t fulfil. If Jehan were to look at him with disappointment, anger even, Feuilly knew he wouldn’t be able to take it.

He’d thought his heart broken after Michel, but it was nothing, nothing at all compared to what Jehan could do to it with just one look.

Jehan was breathless, wide-eyed and alarmed at the sudden change. He scrambled to his feet as well, reaching out but Feuilly recoiled and Jehan froze, hurt flashing across his face.

Feuilly wanted to scream, wanted to hit something until it broke.

“I’m sorry, I-” Jehan trailed off, voice tight and eyes already bright with tears.

Feuilly could say nothing, had never been good at forming words when overwhelmed. It used to drive Michel insane, he knew, but his throat was too tight and he was unable to force anything out even had he wanted to. He did the only thing he could.

He bolted, leaving Jehan to call after him and feeling his heart shatter.

His first thought was to call Grantaire, then he remembered that Grantaire didn’t drink anymore. He texted Bahorel instead, needing his closest friend to tell him that the world was still turning, that it hadn’t just stopped the moment he’d seen Jehan’s tears and left him standing there all alone.

*

Feuilly spent the night in his old room that mostly belonged to Gavroche now, but he was at Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s place that night.

The next morning he woke only long enough to call in sick, before curling back into a ball of misery and falling back to sleep.

By the time Enjolras found him, it was past lunchtime and Feuilly was nursing a hangover from hell. He still hadn’t gotten up and he heard Enjolras before he saw him, talking to Bahorel in the next room. Feuilly desperately hoped he wouldn’t start yelling the minute he came through the door, he really didn’t think he could take it.

“What did you do to Jehan?”

It was uttered in Enjolras’ best commanding voice and with the light of the window hitting him at that angle, he looked more than ever like an avenging angel.

Feuilly groaned and dragged the pillow over his head, wanting to simply hide from the world and never have to come back out. His chest was tight, his eyes stinging at the mere memory of Jehan’s tears and Feuilly couldn’t remember ever having felt more miserable.

There must have been something about him, though, because Enjolras didn’t yell. Feuilly heard him cross the room and then the bed dipped as Enjolras joined him on it, a warm hand coming to rest on his back. Grantaire was a good influence, it seemed. Combeferre had always said so.

The fingers on his back splayed, the palm running a few inches up and down his spine - it was awkward, but comforting, and enough to break Feuilly on the spot. He wasn’t in the habit of receiving comfort, had always been very careful not to give any indication that he needed it.

“I fucked up,” Feuilly told his mattress, almost muffled completely between the bed and pillow.

“What happened?” Enjolras asked quietly, his hand resting between Feuilly’s shoulder blades.

“He kissed me,” Feuilly said miserably. “Jehan kissed me. And I ran.”

Enjolras didn’t answer for a moment, didn’t move at all.

“Why?”

Feuilly pushed the breath from his lungs, chest tight and throat already closing up. He hated feeling like this.

“Because he deserves better.”

Enjolras took his hand back, leaving a cold patch on his back, and a moment later the pillow was gone, his last shield against the world yanked away. Feuilly blinked, momentarily blinded, his head throbbing violently.

“Don’t you think you should let Jehan decide that for himself?”

The stained ceiling above him was slowly coming into view.

“I can’t give him what he wants.”

Enjolras leaned over him, the frown on his face looking even more severe with the way his hair was pulled back.

“And you know that how?” he demanded. “Have you asked Jehan what it is he wants?”

Feuilly said nothing, though it was hard not to let the guilt crush him even more. Enjolras had always had a way with telling people off, even though it wasn’t usually directed at Feuilly.

Enjolras threw the pillow at him and got to his feet.

“Make yourself presentable,” he ordered. “I’m taking you home.”

It was worrying that Feuilly didn’t even feel the need to correct him, because somewhere along the line, Jehan’s flat had become home to him.

*

Jehan’s eyes were red-rimmed, his braid dishevelled and flower-less and his clothes wrinkled and even more mismatched than usual. Feuilly never wanted to hold him more than in that moment.

Grantaire looked up from his position next to him on the couch, then to Enjolras for some kind of silent exchange, before briefly turning back to Jehan and whispering something Feuilly wasn’t able to catch. Jehan nodded and Grantaire pressed a kiss to his cheek, before getting up and taking Enjolras’ hand.

“Be gentle,” he muttered to Feuilly.

Feuilly swallowed hard and nodded. Enjolras gave him a fierce look, before gently tugging at Grantaire’s hand and they departed, the sound of the door closing behind them loud in the otherwise silent room. Feuilly looked after them for a moment, frozen in place.

When he turned to Jehan, he found his eyes already resting on him.

Crossing the room on hesitant feet, Feuilly carefully took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, unsure of his welcome.

“I’m-” his throat was tight and Feuilly had to swallow before he could go on. “I’m sorry for running out on you. That was a shit move.”

Jehan’s fingers were already twisting into his braid.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, voice still thick with tears. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I should’ve asked first.”

He tugged on his braid, hard, fingers catching on a knot and unwittingly tearing out a few hairs. Jehan didn’t even wince.

Feuilly’s hand shot out before he could think about it, closing around Jehan’s and tugging it away from his braid to stop the assault on it. Jehan latched onto his hand like a drowning man, fingers surprisingly strong around his own.

“It’s alright,” Feuilly echoed Jehan’s words. “You didn’t know I’d be such a dick about it.”

Jehan squeezed his hand, almost hard enough to hurt, but Feuilly didn’t even think about letting go.

“You weren’t a dick,” Jehan said. “I came on too strong. I didn’t mean to do anything you don’t want.”

Feuilly sighed. “I did want it.”

Jehan’s eyes were wide. “You did?”

Feuilly twisted his grip on Jehan’s hand and twined their fingers together, tired of fighting himself every step of the way.

“Yes.”

Jehan didn’t smile, but something inside him lit up, his eyes bright now with something other than tears and some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Can I-” Jehan bit his lip, ducking his head a little, voice lowering to the tone that he always used when he was unsure of something. “Can I hug you?”

Feuilly exhaled sharply, his chest seizing up.

“C’mere,” he said quietly, tugging at their joined hands. Jehan came easily, arms snaking around his shoulders and holding on tightly, all but falling against Feuilly’s chest. Feuilly caught him easily, allowing himself the pleasure of pressing his nose into Jehan’s soft hair. Even without the flowers, it still smelled sweet and he inhaled deeply. Jehan curled deeper into his arms, his breath warm were it brushed Feuilly’s neck, a few new tears painting the skin there as Jehan trembled against him.

Feuilly hated himself for causing this, wished for nothing more than to make it better somehow. He held on tighter.

They sat like this for a while, even after Jehan had stopped trembling and his hitched breathing evened out. Feuilly smoothed his palms along Jehan’s spine and felt him sigh against him as he pressed closer.

When they finally parted, the light outside had changed, the shadows growing longer. From this close, Feuilly could see the exhaustion on Jehan’s face, a sleepless night having painted dark shadows beneath his eyes. Feuilly cupped a soft cheek in his palm and Jehan leaned into it, covering his hand with his own and holding it there as if he was afraid Feuilly would yank it away any second.

“You should get some rest,” Feuilly said, his own exhaustion weighing him down. “We both should.”

Jehan blinked at him, eyes already heavy. “Lie down with me?”

Feuilly sighed, but couldn’t resist drawing him close to finally, finally brush his lips across those adorable freckles dusted all along Jehan’s nose.

“We need to talk about this,” he murmured, feeling Jehan’s free hand curling into his shirt, right above his heart.

“I know,” he said softly. “But for now, will you stay? Please?”

Feuilly didn’t think he could have denied him anything in that moment.

“Alright.”

They settled in Jehan’s bed, the couch too small for Feuilly’s long limbs, sliding beneath the covers still fully clothed and on opposite sides of the bed. They were facing each other and Jehan took his hand again. Feuilly gave it willingly, curling slightly closer and watching Jehan do the same.

He couldn’t remember falling asleep, he only knew that the last thing he saw before he did was Jehan’s beautiful face.

*

Feuilly woke with sweet-smelling hair tickling his nose and the sky outside barely beginning to brighten with the light of dawn. Jehan was curled against him and Feuilly around him, their legs tangled and Feuilly’s left arm asleep underneath him. Jehan’s fingers were twisted into his shirt, the fabric mangled from being scrunched up like that for hours. Feuilly couldn’t give less of a damn about the shirt.

He brushed Jehan’s hair away from his face and shifted carefully to bring some feeling back to his arm. Jehan’s fingers tightened and he frowned in his sleep, nose crinkling, before his lids flickered and blinked open. He blinked again, his head tilting upwards to look at him and freeing Feuilly’s arm in the process.

“Sorry,” Jehan muttered, making as if to move away.

Feuilly slid an arm around his waist to stop him, feeling selfish for once. “It’s fine.”

Jehan settled once more, but his fingers finally unclenched and he instead used his palms to smooth out the wrinkled fabric of Feuilly’s shirt. They didn’t say anything for a few long moments, waiting for the haziness of sleep to pass and Feuilly’s hand ran along Jehan’s spine in a slow, uneven rhythm.

“Do you want to talk now?” Jehan asked, finally, tracing a random pattern against Feuilly’s chest.

Feuilly’s hand stilled and Jehan looked up at him, something a little like trepidation in his eyes.

“I don’t know how to start,” Feuilly said quietly.

He’d never liked admitting to his weaknesses, but it was the truth and the fact that this was Jehan made it a little easier.

“You could start by telling me what I did,” Jehan said softly. “To make you run, I mean. Was it just because I surprised you? Or is there something else?”

Feuilly already felt his throat dry up, but he swallowed around it.

“Yes. No.” He let out a frustrated breath. “Yes, you surprised me, but no, that wasn’t the only reason.”

Jehan moved in a little closer once more, close enough for Feuilly to feel his warm breath on his face. He looked at him earnestly, openly, in a way that made Feuilly’s heart swell in his chest.

“You can tell me, you know,” Jehan said quietly. “Whatever it is. It won’t change how I feel about you.”

“Don’t say that before you’ve heard what it is.”

Jehan gave him a fierce look. “I don’t need to hear it to know I’ll still love you.”

“Jehan,” Feuilly all but breathed, his heart beating so wildly he thought it might spring from his ribcage any moment.

He was defenceless in the onslaught of his emotions and, really, there was no way to stop himself form leaning in and kissing Jehan’s soft, soft lips. Jehan yielded instantly, a quiet sound muffled between them, and his mouth pliant and undemanding. He was being careful, Feuilly realised, hardly moving at all so as not to spook him again. It was terribly sweet and heartbreaking at the same time.

Feuilly drew back only enough to brush his lips against Jehan’s freckles once more, cupping his face in his hands, before gently nuzzling against him. Jehan leaned into it, brushing their noses together with a smile. It still wasn’t his usual bright one, but it was genuine and rather more intimate.

“I love you too, you know,” Feuilly said. “But Jehan I- I don’t like sex.”

Jehan drew back slightly, eyes widening as the words sunk in and his lips parting slightly to form a perfect ‘oh’ in surprise.

Now that the first step had been made, the words simply rushed out of him and Feuilly was grateful, needing this to be over.

“Like, not at all. I’m not interested in it and it makes me uncomfortable and I’m- I’m sorry I can’t be what you want.”

Jehan took his hand and Feuilly wondered whether it was some kind of attempt to soften the sting of rejection, but then he was leaning in and gave him the softest kiss Feuilly had ever received, lips barely bushing his own.

“You’re exactly what I want,” Jehan said, close enough for their breath to mingle. “And, if it helps, I don’t like it either.”

It took a moment for the words to register and when they did, Feuilly drew back sharply, the world suddenly tipped off its axis and tilting in a way that made him dizzy.

“What?”

Jehan squeezed his hand, tracing the back with his thumb and leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

“Sex,” he clarified, a blush staining his cheeks even as he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t like it, either. Never have.”

“But you kissed me. What if-?”

Jehan bit his lip. “I thought about it, have been thinking about it and the answer is that I would have, if you’d wanted to.”

“But-” He must have looked decidedly horrified, because Jehan jumped in quickly.

“I don’t get anything out of it, physically I mean. But I wouldn’t have minded if it was something that made you happy.”

Feuilly had no idea what to say to that, throat finally too tight to force any more words out for the moment. He felt weak, dizzy and completely overwhelmed.

“Hey,” Jehan said gently. “Are you alright?”

Feuilly shifted a little further down the bed, his long legs spilling over the edge until his feet hung out, but he didn’t care. He wordlessly pressed his face into Jehan’s chest, hiding in his warmth and inhaling sweetness with every breath. Jehan curled around him, wrapping him in his arms and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Feuilly’s eyes were stinging viciously and he closed them to make it stop.

*

He must have fallen back asleep, somehow, because when he next opened his eyes the room was flooded with sunlight and Jehan was breathing deeply at his side. Feuilly didn’t want to move, but he needed the bathroom and he felt uncomfortably hot with all his clothes still on; his jeans twisted around his legs. He detangled himself slowly, carefully, pleased when Jehan only murmured something in his sleep, before curling around the closest pillow and settling down once more.

After a trip to the bathroom, Feuilly decided to have a shower as well while he was there. He dressed and briefly thought about re-joining Jehan in bed, but then decided against it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and he didn’t want to disturb Jehan, not to mention that the newness of the situation made him feel quite out of his depth and he instead chose a more familiar path. 

He went to the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine and was grateful that it was Saturday and he was off work. He idly leafed through yesterday’s newspaper as he waited for the light to turn green.

Jehan stumbled into the kitchen when Feuilly was halfway through both his coffee and the newspaper and he leaned over to switch on the kettle. Jehan wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, especially not in the morning, preferring tea or hot chocolate.

He looked unsure for a moment and Feuilly abandoned his newspaper to reach for him. Clearly appeased, Jehan fell into his lap and curled into him, still half-asleep. Feuilly wrapped an arm around him, securing him there, and turned another page. He couldn’t yet bring himself to think about what had happened yesterday, what all of this meant and, most of all, how his entire view of the world had suddenly changed overnight.

The kettle clicked, but neither of them moved, unwilling to part from each other just yet.

Jehan finally rose a few minutes later, making tea and wordlessly refilling Feuilly’s cup. Neither of them was very talkative in the morning, each of them giving the other time to wake up properly. Jehan drained half his tea, before brushing a kiss to the top of Feuilly’s head and wandering off to take a shower. He emerged in fresh clothes and slightly damp hair, holding out his hairbrush.

Feuilly took it as Jehan sat in his usual place and Feuilly set to work.

“I’m surprised we’re still alone,” Feuilly said, shifting slightly to improve the angle of the braid. “I can’t remember ever being home that long without any of our friends demanding your attention.”

Jehan tilted his head, leaning into his touch and giving better access. “Enjolras probably told them not to for today.”

Feuilly tied off the braid, reminding himself to thank Enjolras when he next saw him, his only answer a non-committal hum.

Jehan turned and took one look at him, before sliding back into his lap, this time straddling his legs and loosely hooking his arms around Feuilly’s neck. He smiled at him and dropped a kiss on his nose.

“You know you’re my favourite, though. Right?”

Feuilly looked away, annoyed at himself for being caught with his stupid thoughts.

“It’s not a competition.”

“No,” Jehan agreed easily, his arms tightening slightly as he nuzzled against his cheek. “But you’re still my favourite.”

Feuilly drew him in, hugging him close. Jehan carded gentle fingers through his short hair. Feuilly caught his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the fading scar on his palm.

Jehan leaned back slightly, face flushing with colour. “I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t- I didn’t plan it, or anything. I didn’t expect you to offer to help me and then I just- I didn’t know how to keep asking without an excuse.”

Feuilly kissed a flaming cheek. 

“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “And you don’t need an excuse. It’s my pleasure.”

Jehan smiled at him and Feuilly thought it had to be the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. He felt disgustingly soppy.

The hand still in his hair slid to his jaw, cupping it gently, and Jehan leaned in as if to kiss him, but stopped at the last moment as though catching himself.

“Is this okay?” he asked, sounding unsure. “I mean, can I kiss you? Is kissing alright?”

Feuilly blinked, surprised.

“Of course. More than alright.”

Jehan bit his lip. “It’s just- I don’t want to do anything you don’t want. And last time you- was that too much?”

Feuilly sighed. “I like kissing. I just…get a bit jumpy when I feel pressured. But I know you wouldn’t do that, so let’s just try again, okay? I promise not to bolt this time.”

Jehan stroked his cheek. “Okay. Just tell me to stop and I will.”

_I know_ , is what Feuilly didn’t say, instead drawing Jehan in close and tilting his head to meet Jehan’s mouth with his own. It was still heartbreakingly tentative, Jehan’s lips barely brushing his own and letting Feuilly take the lead. He did so carefully, increasing the pressure and gently nipping at Jehan’s bottom lip. When he felt Jehan’s tongue, it was just a gentle touch, the tip brushing the seam of his mouth. Feuilly parted his lips, giving permission without thought and Jehan took it, but just as carefully as everything else.

There was no greedy thrusting, no demands, just hot and wet and close and Feuilly sighed into it, his own tongue brushing Jehan’s and sending a faint tingling down his spine. Jehan pressed closer, but is hips stayed still and his hands barely gripped him at all, head tilting slightly to get a better angle. There was no build up, no underlying desperation, just a constant, gentle pressure and Feuilly thought he could keep doing this forever. Could just drown in the softness of Jehan’s mouth and never need anything else ever again.

When they finally parted long moments later, Jehan’s smile was brilliant and Feuilly could do nothing but return it.

*

At the next meeting, when Enjolras had finished speaking and the discussions in their group had shifted from political injustice to lighter topics, Feuilly sought him out where he was waiting at the bar to receive his order. It was late, late enough for the waitress to refuse to come and cater to the café’s most frequent and noisy customers. It was fair enough, seeing as they usually stayed well past closing time and kept poor Louison from getting home at a reasonable hour.

Feuilly leaned against the bar next to Enjolras, resting one arm on the worn wood.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Enjolras looked at him, turning his full attention to him as Louison grumbled something uncharitable somewhere at the back, her head in the fridge.

“No need,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s nothing compared to the amount of times you’ve given me advice.”

Neither of them mentioned the drama following Grantaire’s appearance in Enjolras’ life, or the months before he finally decided to stop drinking, they didn’t have to. They both remembered it all too well, but Feuilly would never, even for a moment, expect Enjolras to feel as though he needed to be repaid for his services as a friend.

“Thank you anyway,” Feuilly said quietly.

Enjolras smiled and squeezed his arm. Louison interrupted their little moment by banging down two bottles of coke on the counter.

Feuilly looked at her, barely managing to keep from grinning.

“The same for me, please,” he said calmly.

If looks could kill, Feuilly would have been dead twice over. Louison scowled and scurried off. Feuilly could’ve sworn he hear Enjolras snicker.

*

Feuilly was tired, a whole week of work and a night out with Bahorel, Grantaire and Courfeyrac weighing heavily on his bones. The coffee he’d drunk earlier had done nothing at all, least of all for his headache. Jehan was watching him from his place on the couch, obviously torn between sympathy and amusement.

When Feuilly sprawled out over the couch a moment later, his head in Jehan’s lap as he buried close against his stomach, Jehan laughed softly at him. His hands were gentle as they carded through Feuilly’s mussed hair and Feuilly sighed as the ache eased slightly.

“Fucking Bahorel. I’m never drinking again,” he moaned miserably into the soft wool of Jehan’s floral jumper. “I’m joining Grantaire in abstinence.”

Jehan laughed again. “Courf will thank you for it. He’s usually the one that ends up staying sober with him when you go out.”

Grantaire had never asked for it, but it had become a silent agreement between the rest of them that at least one of them would stay sober to make things easier on Grantaire. They would all give up drinking in a heartbeat, but they knew Grantaire would be upset over it, so they didn’t. Enjolras had stopped drinking entirely - not that he’d ever done much of that to begin with - but no one dared question him and Feuilly knew that Grantaire was grateful for it, though he’d never say it.

Jehan leaned down to press a kiss to his temple, then his cheek. Feuilly blindly reached for his hand and twined their fingers together. Jehan kissed those as well.

“I love your hands,” he said quietly. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but it still made Feuilly’s heart swell every time.

He turned his head and tugged Jehan close to nuzzle against him, brushing his lips over the freckles on the bridge of his nose.

“I love you,” he murmured, the words coming easy with Jehan, his chest so full with it that there was no doubt about it, no reluctance to admitting it.

It was all worth Jehan’s brilliant smile.

Feuilly buried back into his stomach, blocking out the light and inhaling Jehan’s sweet scent.

“Read me something,” he demanded.

Jehan squeezed his hand, before letting go to reach for his notebook and opening it on a random page.

“Anything in particular?” Jehan asked and Feuilly heard him leafing through it.

He closed his eyes and relaxed into Jehan’s warmth.

“No,” he said quietly. “I just want to hear your voice.”

Jehan dropped another kiss to his head, before flipping through a few more pages. Apparently satisfied, he stopped and started to read.

Feuilly was already familiar with the poem, knew the words before they left Jehan’s lips, but that didn’t make it any less beautiful. He let them lull him to sleep, feeling safe and content, and surrounded completely by Jehan.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, my dears, but there's no voting today. However, I'll leave you with the amusing image of [Emma painting Harriet](http://janeaustensworld.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/emma-painting-miss-smith.jpg) (in case you're not familiar with Jane Austen's Emma and the movie adaptations thereof). [And the finished painting.](http://janeaustensworld.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/portrait-of-harriet-complete.jpg)
> 
> And now I'm off to fill the next prompt ;)!


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